When I write to a deadline, everything that isn’t vital else gets dropped. This includes:
- real cleaning, not just surface stuff.
- Shopping for food, instead I grab what I need while passing the supermarket.
- Folding washing, instead it’s in a pile and everyone has to fend for themselves, hence my husband putting on my son’s tracksuit pants and then wondering why they were at half mast.
- Plants go dry in their pots, leaves pile up around the garden.
- My grey hair starts to show and my skin is drier than old Priest’s tit.
I met the deadline Thursday night. Whizzing the manuscript to London and falling into a tired heap at midnight.
Yesterday, I had a day off.
Now a day off can mean many things to different people. Mine was to do what I wanted to do as it came to me, and part of it was having some semblance of order in my house again.
I cleaned but didn’t resent it as I chose to do it, not because I had to.
I wandered around my garden with secateurs and snipped at things for my own amusement, not for any great pruning experience.
I watered and fed the pot plants.
I gave myself a facial.
I played with the dogs.
I read some of Letters to a Young Poet.
I ran a few errands.
I wore lipstick.
I didn’t think about writing.
Instead I got about living.
It was a pleasant change but I look forward to heading back into to my imagination again soon.